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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395867">First Rodeo</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras'>Laurasauras</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Coming In Pants, Fate &amp; Destiny, Grinding, M/M, Rodeo Competitions, Wrestling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:26:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,433</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake Harley finds another future guardian at a rodeo. Dirk Strider gets picked up by an older bear.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Grandpa Harley | Beta Jake English, Jake English/Dirk Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>102</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>First Rodeo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You meet him at the rodeo.</p><p>It’s actually not a bad place to meet guys. You’re a member of the Houston chapter of the International Gay Rodeo Association, something that <em>can</em> get you a bit of heat, but only before you ride. You’d like to lone ranger this bitch, but you can’t afford your own animals and IGRA looks after you. And as your denim jacket is kind of advertising, you get approached to the frequency that you can even be picky about who you go home with. </p><p>You pick up on the fact that someone’s watching you early in the evening, when the competitions are more along the lines of goat tying and steer riding, kiddie stuff with ribbons instead of cash. You catch his eyes from more than twenty feet away and he doesn’t look away when you stare him down. You only turn when the horse you were brushing nudges you in the head impatiently. You return your attention to the diva and when you look back, he’s gone.</p><p>You see him again when you’re getting something to eat, and again he stares at you. You can’t get a read on him, don’t have a fucking clue whether he’s wanting to fight or fuck you, but you don’t back down regardless. He’s older (40s? maybe 50?) and built like a goddamn bear, but you don’t lose at anything.</p><p>He pinches the front of his very new looking cowboy hat and winks before he leaves. You’re tempted to follow, but you need to stick close to the trailers.</p><p>You’re a bit of an all-rounder. You know you’ll be competing in the steer wrestling, because frankly no one else on the team can come close to you, but apart from that you go where you’re needed. You’re the youngest, even accounting for your fake ID, so the other guys get to pick their specialities and you just go where you’re pointed. </p><p>The first event you’re pointed at is team roping, which is unfortunately your weakest event. It’s not the roping, you’re a fucking maestro with a lasso, it just requires a degree of synchronicity with your partner that you never quite feel comfortable with.</p><p>Luckily, you’re partnered with one of the guys you’re closest to, a 30-something bi fella called Damien who makes terrible puns but once sat with you in complete silence for over two hours, leaving you at least 60% more comfortable with him than you were previously. You nod at each other from your horses and you force yourself to take a deep breath. The seconds that you spend inert in the small box always lasts forever, time stretching away from you with the bizarre quality of a dream where everything echoes and you feel like you’re adjusting the grip on your reins in slow-motion. </p><p>You’re the header this time, so you give the signal when you’re ready to go. You catch a flash of green eyes in the crowd in the stretched out second from when the steer is released and your following it. You don’t miss a beat, despite your distraction. </p><p>You fucking love this. Your legs tense around your horse and she lurches forward, trusting your guidance as you press her towards the steer. You let your lasso run through your gloved palm and at <em>exactly</em> the right time, raise your arm so that it swings in a smooth, flat circle. You urge your horse until you’re close enough, and release the slack. You don’t bother to hide your smug as <em>fuck</em> smirk as it loops around both horns.</p><p>You make your dally without thinking about it, the motions fast and automatic, and turn the beast around. When you glance back, you catch Damien lassoing the steer’s legs. He grins at you at his success and you give him a nod before jerking the reins to face him. The steer is expertly suspended between your two horses. The whole business has taken about five seconds.</p><p>You can’t help but seek out the guy who’s been following you, and damn if you don’t get an extra surge of adrenaline from his approving expression as he claps. Despite the clean, practically <em>shiny</em> cowboy hat, his moustache is worthy of any western. You tip your hat at him and look away so you don’t blush in the middle of a packed stadium. </p><p>Back outside the ring, Damien slaps you on the back and hands you the reins to his mare. You roll your eyes at him, but you don’t mind being the errand boy around here. Tending to the girls is much better than coffee runs or whatever.</p><p>You listen to the sound of loud music muffled by distance as you walk the mares in calming circles. Even though the event was short, it’s important to let them cool down as gently as possible. Your horse nibbles at your hair and knocks your hat askew and you decide that if she’s calm enough for bullshit then she’s doing fine. You nudge her in the shoulder and she flicks your hat clear off. You catch her nose with your hand and shove it around in an admonishment that <em>happens</em> to look like playing before retrieving your hat.</p><p>‘Looks like you’ve got a handful there.’</p><p>You turn and see your admirer at the fence. You nod at him in acknowledgement and keep walking back towards the hitching rail near your trailers. He follows. </p><p>‘You rode well,’ he says. Then he laughs, his eyes crinkling behind his glasses. ‘Well, I <em>think</em> you did. I have to admit I’m a bit of a rube. I came here for a bangtail or two and they all seem to be able to smell it on me!’</p><p>‘Yup,’ you say, unsurprised. Well, a bit taken aback by the word “bangtail”, but you’re going to assume that means horse until proven otherwise. </p><p>‘I thought getting the right one would be eggs in the coffee,’ he says lightly, as if you were inviting him to continue. ‘I could use a hand, if I’m honest.’</p><p>‘S’that a sex thing?’ you ask. </p><p>‘No!’ He looks kinda cute when he’s surprised. What a weird thing to think about a man built like a fucking turret. ‘I just need someone to give me the straight dick about these,’ he waves his hand demonstratively at your mare, ‘horses,’ he finishes lamely.</p><p>‘No luck there, mine’s got a curve,’ you say, smirking. You tie the girls up and start to walk back to the arena. </p><p>‘Wait!’ he says.</p><p>‘Look, man,’ you say, pausing and turning back to him. ‘I got a job t’do. You want to be taken seriously, you might think twice ‘bout wearin’ a hat that’s still got a tag on.’</p><p>His hands leap to his head and you turn away, much as you kinda want to see if he actually checks it for a tag. He was hot even when he was a giant guy staring at you from afar, but the whole idiot thing makes him seem all innocent and you have a thing for ruining innocence. You have to put it out of your head or you’re going to do something stupid like pick him up with half a show left to go. </p><p>The events and entertainment speed by until it’s your favourite event. Steer wrestling is fucking dangerous and you’re enough of an idiot to think that counts in the pro column. This one is also technically a partnered one, but you barely pay any attention to the other rider. You have bigger things to worry about. </p><p>Namely, the steer that looks north of 500 pounds that’s huffing in the pen next to you. Tiny nuisance if you’re just on a farm. Deadly if you want to tackle it off a galloping horse.</p><p>‘You got this, Dirk,’ someone calls out.</p><p>‘Steeerrider!’ someone else calls, stretching your name to “steer rider”. You spare a moment to congratulate yourself on being fucking awesome and wonder if someone would make a t-shirt saying that. Well, you have a marker and a white shirt in your bag, you can fucking do it yourself. </p><p>You tend to ride mares for most of the events as they’re more likely to follow your lead and you can focus on the other shit that needs focusing on. For this, you have your favourite bastard of a stallion. This asshole doesn’t give a shit what you want from him most of the time, he bites, makes every effort to stomp on the toes of anyone near him and fights every second that he’s being lead anywhere. But he loves this as much as you do. He prances restlessly and you pull his reins tight.</p><p>Your hazer is a man called Tom who used to be the wrestler before you came along. His boyfriend shook your hand the day you proved yourself worthy enough to take over. This shit is a lot more risky for the cowboy than the steer. It’s not <em>not</em> risky for the steer either, but you’ve never done more than daze them.</p><p>You don’t know how you find your fan in the crowd of hundreds but you do, and it’s not on purpose. It’s as if he’s the only real person in a stadium of puppets. You feel your mouth slowly smile without meaning it to, and decide to just own it. You wink. And then you give the nod to release the steer.</p><p>The steer bolts, and the thin rope attached to it breaks, triggering your release. Tom gallops next to the steer and keeps it straight as it rampages across the arena. You leap from your insane stallion and get your hands on the steer’s horns. You dig your heels in, grab the steer’s face and twist to throw him to the ground. Success.</p><p>You let go of him and he gets his feet back underneath him and skitters away unsteadily. You meet your fan’s eyes before you walk back out of the ring, trying very hard not to strut and not entirely succeeding. Tom brings your horse around and you let him take care of the bastard. You want to get ice on your everything before you ruin your pretty body with bruises.</p><p>‘Three point eight,’ Damien tells you. ‘I don’t think anyone’s beating your time tonight, Dirk.’</p><p>‘I’m very impressive,’ you say, your face void enough of expression that you know they’ll be struggling to figure out if you’re being sincere in your boast. ‘Reckon I’ll find some son of a bitch too good for me to rub my legs tonight?’</p><p>‘I don’t know about too good for you,’ your fan says, leaning on the box. ‘Say, can you wrestle a man as well as a cow?’</p><p>‘A cow’s a female that’s had a calf,’ you correct automatically.</p><p>‘That’s what the boys like about you, Strider,’ Damien says. ‘The way you know shit nobody cares about.’</p><p>You flip Damien off and vault the box, landing on the same side as your fan.</p><p>‘Strider,’ you say unnecessarily, offering your hand. He takes it and lifts it to his lips, completely disarming you. You’re struck with the insane impulse to giggle. You hold that absurdity inside. His soft lips linger on your skin, his eyes holding yours for a private eternity. When he releases you, your hand still feels warm.</p><p>‘Harley,’ he says. </p><p>‘You takin’ me home, Harley?’</p><p>‘If you’re allowed to take the air all of the sudden, I’d be delighted to.’</p><p>You look at Damien with as much pleading in your eyes as you can muster. You try to communicate wordlessly that he <em>kissed your hand.</em> You <em>need</em> to fuck him.</p><p>‘Yeah, we’ll close up shop here. Look after our boy, mister. The straights like him.’</p><p>You flip Damien off again, but affectionately this time. It’s a classy amount of rude gesture. You let Harley put his hand on the small of your back and guide you out of the arena. You walk in silence to his car. It’s a fucking <em>Porsche,</em> in gaudy yellow. You have to work very hard to keep your cool. He opens the door for you. </p><p>‘So, you find a horse?’ you ask when he climbs in.</p><p>‘Not today,’ he sighs. ‘A rider is a better prize, though.’</p><p>Oh god, this is how a gentleman behaves. You’re going home with a gentleman. You sit up a little straighter, very conscious of how dusty you are, sitting on a seat that is probably worth more than your horse and definitely more than anything you actually own for yourself.</p><p>Harley takes you to the Hilton he’s staying at, which does not make you any less conscious of the fact that you’re wearing dusty jeans, a flannel and a cowboy hat. He doesn’t seem to care, his hand returning possessively to the small of your back the moment he’s handed off his keys to the valet. </p><p>You, uh, don’t terribly mind being possessed.</p><p>His room is <em>opulent.</em> It’s really several rooms, the bedroom separate from the spacious living/dining/kitchen area. The furniture is coordinated in colour and style, but there’s something vaguely unwelcoming about it. Maybe it’s the generic, suits-all nature of a hotel room that apparently extends all the way to the top, the fact that it can’t look lived in even with Harley’s possessions around. Maybe it’s that you can’t feel at home in a place this fancy. </p><p>He takes off his own spotless hat before stealing yours as well, tossing them on the full size dining room table. You feel out of place and it’s making you nervous. You don’t do nervous.</p><p>‘Look, man,’ you say. ‘I’m several miles away from classy at the best of times, can I steal your shower so I don’t fuckin’ ruin your room?’</p><p>‘Oh,’ he says. ‘No, I don’t think so.’</p><p>Your eyebrows go up judgmentally. </p><p>‘I want to see if you can wrestle me as well as a small cow,’ he explains, smiling bashfully.</p><p>Oh, so your look is doing it for him. Okay, you can work with that. </p><p>‘May I at least take my boots off?’ you ask, your politeness ruined by your sarcasm.</p><p>He nods graciously, and sits to take care of his own as you balance on one leg and then the other, still lingering in the doorway as if you can minimise your contact with the thick carpet you’ve already dirtied. You put your boots in your sylladex, unwilling to lose anything if you have to leave in any kind of hurry. You unbutton your cuffs and neatly roll them up your forearms. </p><p>You take stock of your body, feeling the stiffness that comes from riding horses (and bulls) all day, the bruises from where you’ve fallen and the aches from unloading equipment. You’ve got some vulnerabilities, but his dark hair is starting to grey and his laugh lines never go away, he has to be around 50 and his enthusiasm for wrestling doesn’t have to mean he’s good at it. Maybe he wants to be dominated by someone much younger and smaller than him. Still, you’re not going to underestimate him. He’s broad as fuck.</p><p>He pushes the couch out of the way and motions for you to join him in the cleared area. When you step close enough to him, he takes your shoulders in his massive-ass yaoi hands and lifts your hand to do the same when you hesitate. You do not know what you’re doing.</p><p><em>Fuck</em> that, actually. You are Dirk motherfucking Strider and you can do this. You stare into his eyes as you plan how you’ll move your body. You assume you’re faster, and your slimmer body will be able to duck under his arm, get behind him, get him off balance and let his body do the work for you. </p><p>‘Freestyle wrestling,’ he says, as if you know what the fuck that means. ‘Loser is either pinned for three seconds or taps out. No time limit. Capeesh?’</p><p>‘Alright,’ you say. It’ll be fine, probably. ‘Capeesh.’</p><p>‘Go,’ he says, eyes sparkling with—oh dear <em>god</em> he is strong.</p><p>Your plan of slipping out of his grip is immediately shattered by his hands tightening on your shoulders and him rocking your body experimentally to the side. You set your weight lower down without conscious thought so that he can’t knock you over, but you can tell he’s going easy on you so far.</p><p>You push on his shoulder in return and think you’ll have about as much luck as that as you would with an actual bull. You need to target his legs, or you’re going to get nowhere. You kind of wish you had some rope.</p><p>You throw all your weight to your stronger left side and then drop to the ground without waiting to make sure that you even can. He can’t quite hold you up and you catch yourself in a crouch just before you hit the ground, grab his leg and pull up, rolling your body underneath him. </p><p>He goes over your shoulders and falls hard. You turn on your toes and lunge at him in an attempt to pin him, but he landed too far away and has already recovered by the time you get close. He catches you in your lunge, one arm around your shoulders and the other between your legs, and you’re just catching up to the fact that his forearm is very much in contact with your crotch when he literally picks you up and throws you. </p><p>The breath leaves your lungs all at once and you gasp uselessly as you regain your feet. He’s crouched a ways away from you, grinning. Letting you get back up. Drawing this out. He kicks his fallen glasses out of the area where they can’t be broken and motions with both hands for you to come at him again. </p><p>You meet him in the middle before you’ve even properly recovered from being winded, too high on adrenaline to care about things as simple as <em>breathing.</em> You grab each other around the back and your forehead presses into the top of his shoulder, mirroring his stance. </p><p>You breathe together for a beat, not even grappling, and then his legs corkscrew towards yours and you move instinctively and evasively, picking your feet up as you avoid capture. He pulls you towards him and, off balance because of his legs, you land on his broad chest as you both go down. You scramble away as he rolls you both and you <em>just</em> manage to avoid being pinned. You don’t think you could escape him if he got his weight on you. </p><p>You manage to get to your feet and drag your arm across your sweaty forehead. He’s breathing heavy and your eyes are drawn to the rise and fall of his chest as he also stands. Possibly could have gone for him while you had a height advantage if you weren’t distracted.</p><p>This time when he closes in on you, you duck his attempts to catch you, his swinging arms reminding you of a bear. But without letting him get close, you can’t get at him either. Before you can come up with a strategy around that, he tackles you like a fucking football and you land full on your back.</p><p>This time you aren’t winded, his hand on your back braced you from the full impact. He’s not quite pinning you, even though his knees are either side of your hips and his hand is right next to your shoulder. You look up into his so-green eyes and try to catch your breath, sure that he’s about to kiss you.</p><p>The moment draws out, and you hold back a shiver as your arms, hot with exertion, prickle with aroused goosebumps. His body is so warm and solid above you, but he’s a literal arm’s length away. You want to glance down and find out if he’s just as hard as you are. As you wait to be kissed and the promise fails to be honoured, small doubts begin to creep in.</p><p>This is the gayest situation you’ve been in, right? He didn’t <em>say</em> he wanted to fuck, but he followed you all day, he kissed your hand, you just <em>wrestled</em> for Christ’s sake.</p><p>Your jaw sets in determination as you reach up to grab the back of his neck and lift your upper body so you can kiss him. His hand, still on your back from where he softened your fall, supports your weight as his lips part and your tongues meet.</p><p>It’s fast and dirty immediately, the tension of your stare-down erupting into something that’s almost violent. He drops you back down as you kiss, lowering his body with yours until he’s heavy on you and you can feel his dick against yours. You drag your foot closer to your body to bring your knee up and press your thigh firmer against him, twist your fingers in his hair and kiss him like it’s still a competition. </p><p>He rucks your shirt up and you gain new goosebumps as the air-conditioned room hits your sweaty skin. You hate the fact that you’re both wearing button-downs viciously, and are relieved and turned on when his strong hands rip your shirt open. </p><p>He starts to grind against you, putting urgent pressure then relief on your dick as he moves his hips as if he’s fucking you. You groan and grab at his shirt. It takes you two hard tugs to tear past his buttons, and it’s so worth it when his bare chest can touch yours. </p><p>Your senses are full of his masculinity; the smell of sweat, the feel of his chest hair and moustache, the weight of him. Your fingers tighten around his hard bicep, your teeth click against each other as you make out with zero concern for anything but your desperation, and you grind together in a frantic rhythm.</p><p><em>’Fuck,’</em> you gasp, suddenly aware of how close you are to creaming your jeans and genuinely unable to stop grinding against him anyway. ‘Clothes,’ you say articulately, trying to reach for his belt but unable to get past your bodies. You give up in favour of holding his hips and <em>nngh</em> the feeling of them thrusting against you is so fucking hot. </p><p>‘Need a breather or I’m gonna come,’ you warn him.</p><p>Harley lifts his head from where it was kissing and sucking at your neck and stares at you with lust. He doesn’t stop grinding against you for a second, but holds your gaze in challenge. You groan, further aroused by his scrutiny and your anticipatory embarrassment, and turn your head away. He grabs your chin between thumb and forefinger and holds you still so he can watch you lose it. </p><p>His pace quickens even further and you can’t look away from him and he <em>wants you to come for him.</em> He bites his lip as he stares at you and that’s it, you’re gone. You grip his hips firmer and make a short, involuntary <em>’ah’</em> noise, hot, wet semen releasing into your boxers. </p><p>‘Beautiful,’ he says, easing to stillness. </p><p>He sits up on his knees, efficiently opens his belt and fly, and pulls his cock out. He strokes it urgently as you watch, too caught up in post-orgasm haze and admiration of his heavy, uncut dick as it disappears again and again into his hand to offer to help. He holds it steady as thick spurts draw lines over your chest. There’s a lot.</p><p>He looks at you with satisfaction before he stands up and holds his hand out to you. You stare down at your chest before shrugging off your ruined shirt and mopping up the spunk. His moustache twitches with amusement.</p><p>‘You did this,’ you tell him. You captchalogue your shirt before you take his hand and stand up. The wetness in your boxers moves with you and you cringe. ‘Please tell me I can shower now.’</p><p>‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I’m going to take good care of you, little sir.’</p><p>He’s true to his word, undressing you instead of letting you handle it yourself, and testing the water temperature for you before letting you get in. He shampoos your hair, big fingers massaging your head and making your eyes slip closed. </p><p>You yelp as he guides you into the water again, finding it almost unbearably cold now. You open your eyes to glare at him.</p><p>‘For your muscles,’ he says. ‘I know a thing or two about aches and pains. You’ll feel better for it later.’</p><p>‘I feel worse for it now,’ you grumble, shivering as he turns the temperature up again and then resumes rinsing your hair. He ignores you.</p><p>You endure his hot and cold shower, mostly because after he conditions your hair he rubs soap into your aching muscles, dragging his thumbs over places that hurt in really good ways, knots in your back, the contours of your biceps, along your collarbone. </p><p>He doesn’t let you return the favour and tells you he’s not in his 20s anymore when you attempt to go down on your knees for him. He doesn’t even let you dry yourself, and fusses over your various bruises and scars as you pull on fresh boxers from your sylladex. He wraps you in a fluffy bathrobe and orders every single dessert on the room service menu for a late-night snack.</p><p>‘I’ve been looking for you for a while,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t looking this time, which I suspect is why I found you.’</p><p>‘What do you mean?’ you ask.</p><p>‘Tell me about yourself,’ he says instead of answering your question. ‘Have you lived in Houston your whole life?’</p><p>You give him the safe answers to his questions, wary of the disappointment you see in his eyes when you outright lie. No one else can tell, it was an essential skill for you to learn and you're good at it. How does he know?</p><p>You cuddle against his chest, listening to stories you can’t quite believe about the Hollywood-esque adventure he’s just had in which he stole a precious gemstone from an evil man descended from old Russian aristocracy who was attempting to use the stone to bribe his way back into power. You’re not sure why you feel comfortable enough with him to sleep, but that same comfort doesn’t let you question it too hard. The last thing you think of before your eyes slip closed properly is that, for the first time, you don’t think you can let this one go.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Was so tempted to continue this all the way into canon compliancy, hence the hints at fate throughout. Just imagine that Dirk's one of Jake's more permanent reoccurring adventures.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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